


Beer and Disreputable Hotels

by DoreyG



Category: Arsenic and Old Lace (1944)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Meeting again in bars, Post-Canon, Sex in hotel rooms, Slightly scary hotels, Wow that sentence looks awkward, drunk!sex, mentions of past inadequate sexual preparation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-21
Updated: 2012-08-21
Packaged: 2017-11-12 15:17:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/492639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He supposes that one measly beer can’t really be <i>that</i> bad, after all. Right? <i>Right</i>?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beer and Disreputable Hotels

They meet again in a poky little bar in New York proper. He’s almost finished his drink and is twirling it slowly, Mortimer’s glass is half full and looks set to stay that way for a minute at most. He considers just putting down his beer and _fleeing_ as he sees the man… But Mortimer stops him, gestures him over with a firm hand and a slight smirk.

“Not started fearing me, have you Doctor Einstein?”

He only chances a weak laugh in reply, “you’re hardly _that_ terrifying, Mr. Brewster.”

“I take offence to that!”

“Of _course_ you do.”

The man settles at the bar next to him, beer still in hand. There’s a long and slightly awkward moment before he takes another sip and turns to him with a slightly put-on smile. They stare at each other for a few more _long_ moments before Mortimer takes a deep breath, nods at his glass, “is that only for show?”

“No,” he gives flatly, because it’s not much to give – takes another small gulp and feels just a _tiny_ bit better about life, “what about your smile?”

“My smile…?”

He turns, hopefully just as flatly but _probably_ lumpy enough to resemble a mountain. Fixes Mortimer with wide-eyes and tries not to shatter his glass into little pieces, “why are you _here_?”

“I live here,” Mortimer only nods in response, like he’s being profoundly weird for no apparent reason, “and could ask you exactly the same question: why on earth are _you_ here?”

He remains silent this time, well aware that he’s been caught. Swishes his glass again and stares down at the dregs of his drink like they’re likely to teleport him elsewhere.

Mortimer waits for a long moment before he speaks again, a quick glance confirms that he looks slightly guilty (for no apparent reason, he’s pretty sure) “…Look, I don’t want to start a fight. All I want is one beer with a guy who knows me, is that too much to ask?”

He tries to remain silent, swirls his drink again.

“Einstein?”

“…No.”

He supposes that one measly beer can’t really be _that_ bad, after all. Right? _Right_?

One beer turns into two, and he’s almost started to settle down by the time the second glasses are placed on the bar – his breathing is _almost_ normal, he feels _almost_ capable of moving more than an inch without some dramatic kind of organ failure.

“Elaine left me,” especially with Mortimer _confiding_ in him, voice low and eyes ever so grim as he studies his swirling glass, “promised she wouldn’t tell about the bodies, she’s a saint like that, but still decided that she really _didn’t_ want children with three heads. No matter that I’m the bastard son of a sea cook.”

He can only smile into his own drink in reply, sink a little lower on his stool, “maybe there’s more Brewster in you than you think.”

“Hey!”

Two beers turn into _three_ just as quickly, and he’s _definitely_ settled a little as the third glass is set before him – has even moved on to coherent thoughts, leaning on the bar instead of sitting like a highly paranoid pigeon about to startle into flight.

“I’m not sure what to do without Johnny,” has even moved on to confessions of his own, as the far too warm liquid slides slickly down his throat, “I know I’ve survived without him before, briefly, but now I just feel _lost_ \- like I’m a brain without a body.”

Mortimer only chuckles at him, swallows down his own drink like it’s the finest of wines instead of some rather sub-par slop loosely termed as ‘beer’, “maybe _you_ had a bit more Brewster in you than you thought.”

“ _That_ is something that I cannot verify.”

Three beers morph steadily into four before Mortimer can even _blink_ , and so he’s fully relaxed when the man starts to laugh – a merry smile upon his face, the whole world seeming to brighten in a way it hasn’t since poor Johnny was clapped behind bars yet again.

“Something that you don’t want to deny,” largely due to Mortimer before him, not that he _minds_ when the man is smiling as widely as that, “I’m guessing?”

He only _laughs_ in reply, gulps down his drink in one move that’s _bound_ to draw attention (entirely welcome attention, he’s starting to think with the alcohol warming him and Mortimer still smiling away), “why would I want to deny it?”

“It’s fairly illegal the last time I checked…”

Four beers suddenly becomes five as he snorting over that, far _beyond_ fully relaxed by this point – and doesn’t he know it with the entire world lazily bright around him and the entire alcohol supply of New York merrily sloshing around in his gut.

“I am a wanted criminal who has helped murder at least three people, dipped in and out of alcoholism since an early age and performed roughly a thousand ill-advised surgeries on ill-advised people,” and the entirety of Mortimer’s attention focused right on him, as he carefully swallows that fifth drink down “…And you’re lecturing me about the illegality of _those_ highly pleasurable acts.”

…Mortimer only looks faintly uncomfortable in response, that’s a surprise, “not lecturing.”

“Oh?”

The fifth beer is followed by the sixth as Mortimer desperately tries to unknot his tongue, he’s gone so far past fully relaxed that he feels like he’s on some other plane – of blurring colours and the fascinating coil of Mortimer’s ever so dark hair against his forehead.

“I was a theatre critic, you know,” a fascination that the man seems to notice, judging by the faint blush rising to his pale cheeks, “still am, on a strictly occasional basis. I know- _knew_ a lot of actors. I _hardly_ consider such ‘illegal acts’ to be sinful or anything.”

He only keeps watching that coil, frowning to himself, propping his chin on his hands in a contemplative way, “mm.”

“Are they _truly_ pleasurable? I mean, I know you _said_ they were, but-“

…The six beer fails to turn into the seventh as he keeps regarding Mortimer through narrow eyes, gone so far into the plane that he’s shot _through_ fully relaxed and charged into an entirely new type of tension – one that sets fire to his veins, burns deep in his gut and _lower_ in an entirely undeniable way.

For Mortimer is willing, so very willing with his faint blush and probing questions and open legs practically begging for a person to slide between them.

And Mortimer is _almost_ Johnny, almost out of exactly the same mould save the scars and the temper and the ever present desire to _burn_ the world down with a screeching cackle.

And Mortimer is attractive…

“You could find out.”

The burst of shock is, thankfully, brief to non-existent. The six beers, still sloshing merrily away in his stomach, are paid for without fuss. They leave the bar, barely deserving of the title, without any further questions – stroll out into the cold night side by side.

“Your place or mine?” Mortimer asks on the sidewalk, with a self-mocking smirk that looks almost _charming_ on him.

“Mine,” he answers primly, tucks his hands firmly into his pockets to avoid the cold and gain some control, “I have the necessary aids.”

“Aids?”

“Different anatomy, different mechanics, different _difficulties_ ,” he looks as stern as possible, even with the world swaying slightly due to weak beer and Mortimer warm and _distracting_ at his side, “you can’t just blunder in and hope for the best, that’d be dangerous for _both_ of us.”

“…Huh.”

The trip to his hotel isn’t that long, or dramatic, after they both fall silent and start walking with their elbows bumping almost _companionably_ : it only takes about four turnings with an eye kept on every unshaved man passing, one crossing of a street with the horn of a car blaring in the near distance and a quick hop around a hole in the pavement before they’re _there_ \- in front of battered stone and scratched doors and cracked windows that even a middle class criminal would sneer at.

Mortimer doesn’t even bat an eyelid.

The inside isn’t that much better, somehow managing to be even _worse_ in some places, but Mortimer’s eyelids remain unmoving all the way through. Even as they pass the faintly familiar hole in the wall, even as they dodge the ceaseless drip of the ceiling, _even_ as they pass several drab folk who look at them with dull expressions – he just keeps calm, keeps bumping their elbows softly together.

“Sorry,” he still tries, when they finally reach his door (with the old bullet hole scar in it, quite clear and puckered against the wood).

“It’s fine,” Mortimer only offers in reply, perfectly sincere (and slightly _relieved_ , as he fishes out his key and ushers them in).

There’s a long moment after they get into the room, spent with awkward staring and the careful toss of his keys to the table, before Mortimer makes his move. Steps forwards, presses him against the door and lowers his head so their lips can meet. It’s a good kiss, as far as kisses go: he takes less than Johnny and seems actually _curious_ about what he does manage to snatch.

“Different from kissing a girl?” He has to ask, when they finally part. His lips feel slightly wet, he has the absurd desire to arch back up for _more_.

“A touch, less than I was expecting,” a desire mirrored in Mortimer’s eyes, perhaps. And on his lips, glistening ever so temptingly even before he licks them “…Different from Elaine.”

…He’d almost be _amused_ , if he wasn’t so drunk and concentrating on other matters such as standing and remaining aroused and not dropping into a deep sleep capable of lasting for several centuries, “just as you’re rather different from my Johnny.”

“ _Please_ don’t mention my brother here-”

“Then _please_ don’t mention your former wife…” He attempts to look stern, has to resist a further bout of _giggles_ as Mortimer proceeds to look absurdly guilty, “Come on, get this off instead. It’ll be rewarding eventually.”

The jacket hits the floor in record time, his waistcoat soon following. Mortimer takes the time to kiss him briefly before getting started on the shirt – he hums happily as it slides down his arms.

So happily, in fact, that the indignity of getting out of his undershirt is accomplished with the minimum amount of fuss: his elbows get a bit tangled, _yes_ , and he can barely see or breath for a few moments - but soon his upper half is bare and Mortimer is there with a faintly apologetic kiss.

…And nuzzle.

And trail of teeth down his throat, making him arch and moan into the sudden contact as if it’s _never_ been done to him before.

“Your back will hurt…”

“I don’t care.”

“You’ll care in the morning,” he _squeaks_ , digs his nails in anyway as Mortimer pins him warmly and mouths against his collarbone and makes him _writhe_ like the virgin that he can’t even remember being “…And you’re not even the slightest bit undressed, come _on_.”

They somehow manage to move across the room in the process of shucking further clothing. Mortimer’s jacket is lost casually on the floor, his waistcoat is left messily over a chair and his shirt and undershirt disappear off to God knows where in quick succession. His own trousers (and shoes, and underwear) are lost at around the same time – strewn across the floor and over the furniture and _behind_ a thousand unknown things as they just keep staggering.

…Until he’s entirely naked, as he presses back against the opposite wall.

“You’re prettier like this,” entirely open to Mortimer, not that he minds _that_ as the man purrs in his ear and slides a hand down his chest to cup him – gently wraps long fingers around his cock and listens to him _hiss_ , “you should be like this all the time, as a service to society.”

“People would- _ah_!” He can only whine, buck up into the man as he tightens his grip “…Protest, quite passionately.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Yes, but _what_ about the other few billion?” He tilts his head back, _whines_ again, digs his nails firmly back into Mortimer’s now bare shoulders “…Keep doing that.”

“Mm.”

The world lazily recedes to a small, hot point – there’s only the sensation of Mortimer’s palm against his cock, Mortimer’s hot breath against his neck, Mortimer’s body pressed right up against his, _Mortimer_ … And the fingers of the man’s other hand, creeping down between his legs to warmly circle around his hole. 

And _he_ -

_Holy fucking hell_.

-He, fuck, _bucks_ \- _gouges_ his fingers into Mortimer’s bare shoulders and swears thoroughly and passionately under his breath.

“There?” It’s a miracle that the man manages to stay calm.

“…W-wait,” a thankful miracle, all things considered, a _blessed_ miracle that he might actually thank God for the next time a Sunday rolls around and he’s reduced to hiding in some church. It makes it far easier to veer shakily over to the side, push against the wardrobe until his bag tumbles down from the top and sprawls all over the floor, “ _there_.”

Mortimer stares at him for a second, as he carefully wriggles out and bends down to the debris.

…Mortimer has gone _stiff_ – he can see it in the faint shake of his thighs, the faster lift of his chest.

“Oh, _hush_ ,” he can only sigh, the faintest bit guilty with the memories of that house and that chair and the man proving himself to be a lot less smart than he thought at the most _inconvenient_ of times, “it’s nothing _bad_ , it’ll actually _help_ us.”

…Mortimer’s eyes remain wide.

_Sigh_.

He slides back up to his feet, pot carefully clutched in his hand. Restrains all impatience or anger (or _guilt_ ) as best he can, tugs Mortimer back over him as quickly as possible and carefully draws him back down into a soothing kiss.

The man’s long fingers are easy enough to slick up, what with the distraction. He works steadily until Mortimer breaks the kiss, leans back and narrows those eyes just a little. From there it’s easy enough to smile, plant one slick hand and one wrist (still holding the oil) on Mortimer’s shoulders and awkwardly attempt to push himself _up_ -

…And be pleasantly surprised, as he finds his body quickly lifted and his legs wrapped around those muscular hips like Mortimer can take his weight all day long.

He smiles softly, slowly lowers his hand and lifts those slicked fingers right up to his ready hole… Ah, and _watches_ as Mortimer’s breath _catches_ in such a flattering way.

His smile grows wider, “it’s alright.”

Mortimer still hesitates for a moment more-

And, _ah holy fucking fuck_ , that finger slides in easily – a brief flicker of pain, far less than he’s used to since sometimes Johnny was fond of using only his _spit_ , soon being replaced by a long _slide_ of pleasure. A burning fizz that makes him feel like he’s on fire over and _over_ again.

…He’s _groaning_.

That’s a bit of a surprise.

But, again, not a _bad_ one – not if it encourages Mortimer to slowly add a timid second finger, encourages him to start to thrust so slowly that it has him throwing his head back against the wall and trying his very, _very_ hardest not to explode into a thousand pieces and slowly ooze all the way down.

And when the man adds a third finger…

The world actually _whites out_ for a while, his veins briefly having a discussion and simultaneously bursting into flames as Mortimer leans in and gently stretches him wide.

“…Einstein?”

“Y-Yes, that’s fi-fine,” he pauses, barely manages to catch his breath as Mortimer stares up at him and blinks ever. So. _Slowly_ “…Get your trousers off, please. It’ll also - _fuck_ \- be rewarding _eventually_. Or quickly. Very, _very_ quickly if you-”

…He blinks himself when his feet hit the ground.

Relaxes as Mortimer removes his trousers in record time, strips free of his underwear only a moment later and is soon in position again. Gently mouthing against his neck and slowly sliding his fingers out while he’s distracted and lifting him securely back into his arms and…

And he groans, as the man’s cock presses against his body. And the slide in is-

_Fuck_!

- _Slow_. A long, hot push that almost bends him in half and grinds his teeth together and makes his nails scrabble all over Mortimer’s gleaming back. He _definitely_ can’t breath now – the air turned to _smoke_ in his lungs as his fingers slide and his teeth ache and he tilts his head back until their eyes lock in _such_ a desperate way.

…Mortimer’s expression is _stunned_.

“Move,” and he can only choke in the face of it, tighten his ankles and clench his thighs and gouge his fingers and grit his teeth and drag Mortimer so close to him that he might never _ever_ have to let go and return to one person alone, “Move, fuck you, _move_.”

And, luckily, the man obeys pretty quickly after that.

He moves differently from Johnny – slower, despite his urgency. Deeper, despite his inexperience. Gentler, despite his obvious _need_. He makes a point of not bruising his hips until they’re puffy lumps of purple that barely resemble the originals – simply holds on to them like they’re some sort of lifeline.

And he gasps.

He’s more keen on touch than Johnny, too – soft presses of his lips, feathered over his collarbone. Desperate nuzzles of his face, right against his neck. Those hands spreading carefully across his hips, caressing instead of crushing. He presses against his skin like he can never get enough of it - _appreciates_ instead of simply taking and taking until he’s full.

And he moans.

And not _only_ that, but he’s easier to bring to the very edge – biting his lip, with his eyes mostly shut. Gasping, hot against his neck. Shuddering and _shuddering_ , pressed so close against him that he can feel every twitch. Losing himself so fully that he’s pleasantly surprised yet again – stunned and _shocked_ because he’s never been somebody to get lost in ever before.

And he _groans_.

And when he comes…

And he _whimpers_.

Well, he _keeps going_ \- holding himself up, thrusting, _brushing_ against that brilliant spot deep within him. His arms shake, and yet he keeps holding himself up until the world goes white again. His hips must ache, and yet he keeps thrusting against that brilliant spot until the wall is practically burrowed through. His entire body must be ready to completely _fall apart_ …

And he _cries out_ -

…And yet Mortimer keeps going until he comes, his entire body slumping against the wall and his throat suddenly aching with the roughness of screams.

The sweat cools between them.

He half considers closing his eyes.

…And then Mortimer grunts, turns away from the wall with him still cradled in those long arms. Staggers one step, two steps towards the bed before basically falling over – sprawling over the covers with the both of them still tangled together from lips down to legs.

There’s a long moment.

The sweat keeps cooling between them.

And he _laughs_ , blissful and sweaty with his throat still aching. Wriggles until he’s free, coils back into Mortimer’s warm side and ever so ( _ever_ so) happily closes his eyes.

 

\--

 

When he wakes up the next morning Mortimer is already up and out of bed – his clothes back on, only a little wrinkled, and the straight line of his back to him as he carefully fixes his hair in the slightly cracked mirror. He frowns for a second, sits up in bed and ignores the urge to just slump back down and avoid all aching-

“I’m getting bored of being a drama critic on an occasional basis,” is rewarded, as Mortimer briefly looks at him via the mirror – smiles a little and moves on to his morning stubble, “you don’t mind another companion, do you?”

…He only laughs in return, and slides invitingly back down into the bed.


End file.
